Razzle Dazzle
by EmilyCastrov
Summary: Drek offers Qwark the opportunity of a lifetime. Inspired by "Razzle Dazzle", from the musical "Chicago"


In the center of the room lies an oversized desk, neatly organized with a stack of paperwork on the corner. A small bobble head, shaped in his own image, watches over the blueprints for the largest and most powerful weapon the company has ever produced. The answering machine buzzes, and the secretary speaks through it. "You have a visitor, sir. Copernicus Qwark."

A groan of annoyance at the news as he laments to no one in particular. "Remind me why I'm entertaining that fool in the first place." His fingers massage the side of his face for a moment, the circular motions aiming to prepare himself for the oncoming headache. As satisfied as he's going to be, he clicks the machine's button. "Very well, send him in." He turns the chair towards the blank wall monitors, away from the entrance, to put on his best act. After all, are all forms of business not the most profitable of dances?

The doors hiss open, and four blarg bodyguards escort Captain Qwark into the room. The one thing that his gaze drifts to more than anything else is the ornate gold plaque that proudly announces the owner of said office: _Supreme Chairman Alonzo Drek_.

The chair spins around to greet the potential business partner, his forced grin twitching slightly as he covers the Deplanetizer plans. "Welcome, Captain! I've called you here for a matter of business, one that I'm certain you couldn't possibly refuse." An arm reaches out to adjust the plaque slightly, making sure that it glistens in the light just right. _Some fools are so easy_, he thinks, as the buffoon locks eyes with the trinket. "A life-changing opportunity if I've ever seen one."

Qwark shifts his feet slightly, itching to get out of there as soon as possible. The four guards from before split up, two watching the door, and the other pair standing on each side of the chairman. Each are heavily armed, and the one to Drek's right holds his personal blaster. He gulps, but the flicker of gold snaps his attention, and the promise of money restores his confidence.

Qwark puts on his best showman's voice, standing proudly with a camera-ready grin. "Greetings, Chairman! So, what can I, Captain Qwark, Savior of Solana, do for you?"

Drek could swear that the arrogance coming from the spandex-coated clown thickens the air, but he continues anyway. _The sooner this is done, the better._ "I can't give the details, at least, not unless we come to an agreement."

Drek shifts in his seat a bit, leaning back as he taps his fingers together. "But I can say this: Drek Industries has been watching you over the years, and I must say your feats are quite impressive." Arms outstretched to the man with the compliment, the gesture feeds into his ego perfectly. Drek would kick himself for such a lazy excuse of a lie, he's done so much better in the past, but it's working so far.

Qwark rolls his shoulders a bit, making sure to flex his figure just a bit to affirm the blarg's words. "I certainly have been busy all this time, haven't I? Those amoeboids, the thousands of robot-pirate-ninjas, all of them Nefarious' design, and I took them all out single-handedly!" With each tale, Qwark moves to act out the fights, the world as his stage.

Drek waves him off, "Yes, yes, I'm sure you did. But that, my friend, was the past." A flick of the gold, and the conversation is returned to where it needs to be as Qwark stops in his tracks. "Here at Drek Industries we look to the future! And in our future, I see a new life for my people." _And very heavy pockets for me._

"And what does that have to do with me?" Qwark looks around at the guards, who snicker to themselves too lowly for him to hear as they keep their weapons pointed to him. In the corner of the room, he notices what must be a prototype warbot. The thing seems as tall as he is, give or take a few inches, and its bright red optics stare into him. _Has spandex always been this..sweaty?_

"The answer is simple, Captain. In the coming weeks, I'll need your protection from galactic authorities, and in return, I can reward you." Drek pulls a pouch of bolts from his pocket, tossing it onto his desk. The loud thud that comes from it makes Qwark question just how many are in that little thing, especially since the material seems stretched thin, fighting the urge to burst apart at the seams.

Qwark shakes his head out of his daze, not realizing just how closely he'd been leaning into the object. He turns on the charm, a smolder gracing the unmasked portion of his face as he strikes a dramatic pose for a nearby security camera. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I could never betray the good people of this galaxy, Chairman. Especially for something as trivial as mo—"

A crisp snap, and Drek points at the left guard. In response, the employee carefully walks closer. A briefcase comes into view from under the desk, and the guard struggles to lift it onto the wood surface. Opening it is a good bit easier though, and the case is filled to the brim with similar bags. There's no need for such presentation, but the same amount of money looks so much more impressive in this form than on a check. "Of course," Drek continues, and the briefcase nearly slams down onto Qwark's hand. "This is only a small fraction of what's in store for you. The rest will come after the job is done."

The green 'hero' stays deathly still, and Drek can tell that he's hooked. But now, it's time to reel the fish in. Drek rises from his perch, a hand reaching to Qwark's back as far as his stature will allow him to. "Think of it: Captain Qwark, the Savior of the Blarg, the new spokesman of our new home! If you're unsure, allow my men and me to show you the possibilities! Ready, boys?"

Drek snaps his fingers, and the guards gather around him. They all carry a cane and a top hat, save for the one on the end, who daintily flutters a pair of decorative pink feather fans. The blarg next to him elbows him hard enough to throw off his balance, and the straggler swaps his props out to match the rest.

Drek rolls his eyes, fully planning to fire that guy later. He pulls out a small button from his pocket, and with its pressing, the lights dim. One by one, the huge monitors on the wall light up the room. Music plays as the canes tap the ground in rhythm, and Drek begins to solidify his case.

Scattered on the view screens are various articles of Qwark's exploits, each with his shining, smiling visage front and center. Drek slowly walks Qwark along the display, his lackeys dancing in the background.

"_Give 'em the old razzle dazzle; razzle dazzle em'._

_Give 'em an act with lots of flash in it, and the reaction will be passionate."_

Drek nudges Qwark with a wiggle of his eyebrows, pointing toward an advertisement of some personal masseuse-bots.

"_Give 'em the old hocus pocus, bead and feather 'em._

_How can they see with sequins in their eyes?"_

It's a miracle that people still have so much faith in the washed up, egotistical actor, but it works in his favor anyway.

"_What if your hinges all are rusting? What if, in fact, you're just disgusting?"_

Drek's face scrunches a bit in pure discomfort. Being this close to Qwark is a bit sickening to the blarg, the green spandex stretched to its limits and drenched in nervous sweat. It harshly clashes with an expensive, gaudy perfume of Qwark's own brand; at least _his_ company's has the decency to smell better.

"_Razzle dazzle 'em, and they'll never catch wise."_

Another click, and the previous articles disappear to make room for carefully edited photos of large crowds and merchandise. Front and center is a postcard for New Quartu, adorned with Qwark's image shaking hands with Drek's.

"_Give 'em the old razzle dazzle, razzle dazzle em'._

_Give 'em a show that's so splendiferous, row after row will crow vociferous._

_Give 'em the old flim flam flummox, fool and fracture 'em._

_How can they hear the truth above the roar?" _

Drek finishes the phrase with his arms outstretched to the edited photos of Qwark's merchandise, and the backup dancers add to the effect with a sort spoken chant, backing off immediately as not to take the spotlight from the boss.

"(_Roar,Roar,Roar.)"_

"_Throw 'em a fake and a flanagle,_

_They'll never know you're just a bagel."_

With a shrug, Drek points to the large bot, and the other blargs' canes point with him.

"_Razzle dazzle 'em, and they'll beg you for more!"_

The warbot slowly moves in to Qwark as the blarg back off to give it room. Instead of attacking him, the machine pulls him into a waltz.

"_Give 'em the old double-whammy, daze and dizzy 'em._

_Back since the days of old Methuselah, everyone loves the big bamboozler."_

As the two dancers spin around the room, Qwark can feel all eyes on him, as well as see the flash of cameras.

"_Give 'em the old three ring circus, stun and stagger 'em._

_When you're in trouble, go into your dance!"_

The warbot dips Qwark, then releases him with a spin as he backs away. Qwark twirls alone in a rain of bolts that appear from thin air, coming from the projectors in the room.

"_Though you are stiffer than a girder, they'll let you get away-"_

The projector turns off, and the lights dim to a darker hue. The blargs all close in to Qwark in a hushed whisper.

"_-with murder."_

The other blarg back off, and Drek opens his desk to reveal a clipboard of the contract, offering it to Qwark.

"_Razzle dazzle 'em, and you've got a romance!"_

Before Qwark can take it, Drek pulls it away. He struts just ahead of Qwark, slowly making his way away from the desk. Qwark follows like a duckling, just as he planned.

"_Give 'em the old razzle dazzle, razzle dazzle 'em._

_Show 'em the first rate sorcerer you are!"_

Two guards make jazz hands to Qwark, further feeding his ego as the other two offer him sweets on golden trays. Gloved hands reach for a chocolate truffle, bringing it to his mouth with a satisfied smile. Drek is already making his way to his own seat while Qwark is distracted.

"_Long as you keep 'em way off balance,"_

Behind him, the warbot from before pushes an oversized chair under Qwark's feet, rolling its wheels straight to the other side of the desk.

"_How can they spot you've got no talents?"_

Drek slams the contract onto the desk's surface, gaining Qwark's attention before he notices the insult.

"_Razzle dazzle 'em," _

Drek slowly pushes the document to Qwark's side, his fingers lingering over that dotted line at the bottom.

The blarg cronies softly harmonize as Qwark clumsily searches for a pen.

"_(Razzle dazzle 'em, razzle dazzle 'em.)"_

The room is silent for a moment, the tension thick.

"_And they'll make you a star!"_

The chairman reaches for the skies to end the note, and the music cuts out. The theatrics come to an end, and the lights return as the guards assume their original positions. Drek sits down on his own chair, leaning forward with a sly smile. "So..." Drek gently places an expensive looking fountain pen right next to the contract, his other hand carefully tapping against the briefcase of bolts.

"Have we got a deal, Captain?"


End file.
